Being Selfish
by Emmylou
Summary: The explosion causes John to forget everything that came after being shot in Afghanistan. He becomes obsessed with trying to gain his memories back. The problem is that his mysterious flat-mate seems equally obsessed with making sure he doesn't. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Being Selfish

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock (this incarnation) belongs to the BBC. I (and the other 7 billion people in the world) own the originals because they belong to everyone (yay!)

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock

**Summary:** The explosion at the pool causes John to forget everything that came after being shot in Afghanistan. He becomes obsessed with trying to gain his memories back. The problem is that his mysterious flat-mate seems equally obsessed with making sure he doesn't remember.

**A/N:** As a psychology degree student, writing a cliché amnesia fic is quite funny. Since there are very few physical injuries that I could think of that would reliably cause that specific level of retrograde amnesia (and not cause other serious problems, and/or be permanent) we're going down a psychoanalytic route. HOWEVER as a psychologist I am duty bound to point out that other psychological theories *are* available.

* * *

"So we live at-" John paused to look down at the address he had written down in front of him, "-221a Baker Street." The taxi ride was taking forever in the rush hour and inane chatter at least could distract him from the utter madness of finding himself suddenly and without warning in the middle of London.

Unfortunately his flat-mate didn't seem designed for humdrum talk. "221b," was his monotone reply.

They lapsed into silence again and John went back to thinking his situation over.

He had already been swamped with new information at the hospital. _Retrograde Amnesia, trauma, post-traumatic stress_; these were all terms that had been scrawled across his notes, passed from doctor to doctor, and then been explained to him in over-simplified terms. John had reminded them that while he had forgotten the past four months of his life, his eight years of medical training were still fresh in the mind.

The working theory settled upon by the doctors and psychologists was that when John had been injured in the explosion those injuries had – coupled with his pre-existing PTSD – caused him to mentally return to the last time he had been happy; some time shortly before being shot. No matter how John strained his mind, the last clear memory he had was of eating breakfast with the troops. After that there were only fuzzy patches of memory; being on patrol, patching up a head-wound, driving a jeep, and then...nothing...just the nurses and doctors of the last few weeks.

Naturally he had been baffled at first. To be shot in Afghanistan was one thing (and he had first assumed he was recovering from an injury received out there) but the truth was even more bizarre. He had already recovered from a bullet wound, returned home, and then – under his own steam – managed to get blown up in a swimming pool.

He had not been alone in this explosion, though no one seemed to know much about it. He had gathered that his flat-mate – one Sherlock Holmes – had been with him at the time. This man's injuries had been less severe, and he had been discharged two days after John had first woken up. According to the staff this man had inquired after his health frequently, but after discovering John's memory loss the man seemed to have lost interest. He no longer inquired, and he hadn't dignified John with a personal visit, or even a message.

His land-lady had visited over the next two weeks. She brought pyjamas, toiletries, and medical publications for him to read. She made light chit-chat with him about daytime television and hospital food, but was otherwise uncommunicative. Whenever he asked about other things, she gave an apologetic wince and told him that he should keep his mind off it. Her tone suggested that longed to say more, but couldn't.

It was to his surprise then that Mrs. Hudson informed him that the man himself, the great Sherlock Holmes, would be collecting him when he was finally discharged.

"He's been asking after you, you know," she said kindly, "quite fretted he has, in his own little way." Then she bit her lip as though she had said far too much.

Now, a day after Mrs. Hudson's last visit, he was sitting in a taxi with Sherlock Holmes,

Meeting him had been like meeting a stranger and John had judged him as such. He was expensively dressed, aloof, and on the rare occasions he spoke he did so with a clipped, well-educated voice. Though John wasn't one for noticing male attractiveness, he recognised that if the two of them ever went on the pull, Sherlock would be the one going home with a glamour model.

This man was his friend? If he was, he certainly had a funny way of showing it. He was looking fixedly out of the window aside from pausing to fire off an occasional text.

John, who was finding being in London again overwhelming, focused on reading and rereading the safety notices inside the cab. When this became too tedious, he ventured to speak again.

"How long have I been living there?"

"Two months."

"And how did I come to-?"

"We were both looking for a flatmate. A friend of yours introduced us."

John took this in. "Oh, who?"

Sherlock gave a disinterested shrug. "Old uni friend. Can't remember a name."

John doubted this. This man didn't seem the type to forget names. Even if he had, he might have mentioned how he knew the friend, or where the friend worked. Personally John couldn't think of anyone from uni he still socialised with these days.

The cab pulled up in a well-heeled street. Without a word, or even an offer to help with the bags, Sherlock climbed out.

* * *

Once inside, the flat was nicer than he'd expected. But it didn't give him much in the way of insight into the last two months. John felt he could have gone into any flat in the street and felt about the same amount of recognition as he did in this impersonal and tidy room.

It was just a space shared by two people who existed together but had little other connection. It was nicely furnished, but bore no personal marks. The bookcases were filled with books he didn't recognise and DVDs he vaguely remembered owning before Afghanistan. The surfaces were clear and presumably anything personal they owned was kept in their private rooms.

"Very nice," he said mildly.

Mrs. Hudson interrupted (or rather, provided a welcome distraction) to welcome him home. She threw her arms around him like a favourite aunt might, patted his cheek, and fussed over the length of his hair. She seemed about to enquire after any changes in his health in the less than twenty hours since she'd last seen him, but stopped when she seemed to notice something unusual about the room.

"Hell's teeth Sherlock! What's happened in here? It's -" she must have read something in Sherlock's un-expressive face, because she faltered, "It's so...clean."

Sherlock shrugged. "Well it wasn't up to our usual standards, what with both of us being in hospital, so I gave it a once over."

"Usual standards?" was her bemused reply.

"John could probably do with a cup of tea Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock pointedly. Mrs. Hudson gave him a look that suggested that were it not for John's delicate state then Sherlock would have received a clip around the ear for that.

John tried to stop her, claiming he hadn't forgotten how to boil a kettle, but she waved him off and went to make it anyway. With nothing else to do John moved towards a comfy looking armchair near the door. It was rounded with a union flag cushion.

Sherlock almost forcibly pushed past him and dropped into the seat first. He pointed to an empty and uncomfortable-looking chair opposite him.

"That one there is yours," he explained.

* * *

**A/N:** Let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Being Selfish

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock (this incarnation) belongs to the BBC. I (and the other 7 billion people in the world) own the originals because they belong to everyone (yay!)

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock

**Summary:** The explosion at the pool causes John to forget everything that came after being shot in Afghanistan. He becomes obsessed with trying to gain his memories back. The problem is that his mysterious flat-mate seems equally obsessed with making sure he doesn't remember.

**A/N:** To say I found this chapter difficult is an understatement of epic proportions. There was nothing wrong, per se, other than I was overwhelmed by the positive response and this sent me into an 'I'm a terrible writer really who will never amount to anything!' panic and became convinced of my lack of talent and the certainty of disappointing everyone. Even as I type this to explain, my hands are shaking with nerves. Anyway, just explaining why it's late, and also hoping you can reassure my panic. I do know where this story is going, so it's an irrational phobia.

Anyway, end of author breakdown, on with the story.

* * *

A month passed with the sort of aching boredom John normally associated with afternoon murder mystery repeats. It was as if his life was now a never ending stream of Murder She Wrote, Diagnosis Murder, Quincy, and (on slightly more interesting days) Ironside. He remained in his room most of the time, or took long and aimless walks. In desperation he took to doing pointless chores, and spent the better part of two days cleaning the upholstery.

He knew that he should be doing something, but he couldn't seem to figure out what it was. Nothing he did triggered his memories, and Sherlock (who seemed to be the only person who might have helped him with this) seemed to be the sort of person who only used his flat as a base and spent the rest of the time doing more interesting things.

In vain John had tried to discover more about his flat-mate but the flat revealed little and John was above breaking into the man's bedroom. On the rare occasions Sherlock was home, any questions John had were avoided, ignored, or answered in monosyllable.

"So what do you do?" John had asked.

"Consultant."

"For what industry?"

Sherlock had shrugged and started typing at his laptop, cutting the conversation off.

John wasn't a fool; he knew that Sherlock was hiding something. John must have known about Sherlock's life, and must have liked him enough to be in a situation to get blown up together. Yet now John had no memories, Sherlock had turned himself into a ghost. Sherlock didn't eat at home, didn't work at home, and certainly spent no more time than was necessary there. He didn't make a mess of the rooms because he wasn't there long enough to do anything. The man seemed to have no hobbies, no interests, and no likes or dislikes.

John also knew that Sherlock was becoming an obsession, though he justified himself that he little else to do with his time.

In desperation he asked Mrs. Hudson. He sat on her sofa while Michael Buble played in the background ("You bought me that CD for my birthday John, though you probably don't remember," she informed him.)

"He wasn't like this before, was he?" There was no need for John to clarify who he was talking about. Mrs. Hudson pulled the conflicted face she was wont to do when asked about Sherlock.

"No, he wasn't," she quavered.

"Then why has he changed?"

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands. "I don't know John. No one does. He's driving everyone mad. If you knew him -" she caught herself, "- if you remembered I mean, you'd know how out of character all this was. He's trying to hide everything about himself from you. And he's not any happier for it either – he misses you. You were his only friend, and now he doesn't even have you."

"Only friend?" echoed John. He'd assumed that Sherlock was staying with friends or a girlfriend for the long periods he was away from home. He said as much and Mrs. Hudson laughed.

"Girlfriend? Heavens no."

John altered tact with the ease of someone with a lesbian sister. "Boyfriend then?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "No John. I think you are the only person he's ever truly liked."

* * *

John was a war veteran who had recently been in an explosion and ended up with retrograde amnesia. Short of going on the run to a country where they couldn't ship him back to Britain, the only way he could escape counselling was to offer up his own death certificate as proof of ineligibility to attend.

But to the medical profession's surprise, John actually welcomed the idea of seeing a counsellor. It might help him figure out exactly what had happened. His interest was further piqued when he was told he would be seeing the counsellor he had initially visited on his return from Afghanistan. She would not only help him get his memories back – but she would actually know something of what had happened to him in that time.

Naturally, nothing was ever that simple.

Ella seemed a competent therapist. He had hoped for a blow by blow account of his previous sessions, followed by practical advice and/or offers of hypnosis to help him regain his memories. All she wanted to do was discuss feelings. He sat in her office arms crossed, staring at the floor like a child who was trying to hide their disappointment at an unsatisfactory Christmas present.

Had any memories returned? No.

Was he in any pain? Not especially.

Was he having nightmares? No.

How did he feel about losing his memories? Confused. Angry. Curious. What anyone normal would feel.

"Then perhaps we should work on addressing those feelings..." Ella said as she scribbled notes on her pad; 'John is physically and mentally closed off.'

"I'm not closed off," he snapped, and watched as she added 'trust issues.'

He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. "I don't want to work on addressing those feelings. I've lost four months of my life! Those are normal feelings that anyone would have and I want to be feeling them. This isn't what I came here for."

"Then what did you come here for?" asked Ella gently.

John paused and when he spoke he was unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. "I've been here before. I met you. You knew me. I was... hoping something would be familiar."

Ella frowned. "And is anything familiar?"

John looked around and shrugged in defeat. He'd got lost finding his way to the office. And he wasn't sure he'd be able to recognise Ella in the street if he bumped into her tomorrow – let alone recognised her from previous sessions. "No."

He leaned forward. "Can't you describe how I seemed before? Just a hint. It's like...like I know that the last two months were really important and yet I can't understand why – or why he doesn't want me to remember."

Ella's pen almost blurred in her keenness to write down notes. "That's very interesting," she murmured. Annoyingly she held the pad away from him. "You lost four months of your memory yet you seem almost unconcerned with the first two months."

John cursed himself for making himself sound so desperate. "I got shot, then I got sick, then I came home," he muttered. "It can't have been that fun to remember. I mean – yeah – I want them back too. But it feels like there's more to it than that."

"You also seem to connect your flat-mate to those memories. As if you believe he is personally preventing you from remembering."

John winced. "It sounds stupid but I know that this is somehow connected with him. Even if he can't give me the memories back, he could at least explain what happened. But it's like he doesn't want to. Did I ever mention him?"

Ella looked apologetic. "I'm afraid that you ended your sessions exactly two months after your return from Afghanistan. Something happened that made you feel like you didn't need them anymore. I tried to arrange a final session, but you declined."

John huffed. "So you don't know what happened? I never said *anything* about Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well," said Ella softly. "I read a little of your blog. But I stopped when your sessions stopped. I didn't want to you think I was chasing you."

"My blog?" John asked with a start. "What blog?"

Ella looked at him wide eyed. "I assumed you knew," she said. "I encouraged you to keep it and write about what happened in your life."

John had to restrain himself from leaping up out of his chair. Hope surged in his stomach - it felt as though he were on the hunt and closing down on his prey. He asked for the address (well, demanded, but he at least pretended to be polite). Ella wrote the website address down on her business card agonisingly slowly, but before she handed it over she paused and spoke gently.

"John, just to give you a friendly piece of advice, don't let this desire to find out about that time turn into an obsession. Four months is nothing in the grand scheme of things – certainly not worth wasting your life away on. Just...promise me you'll think about the future as well as the past. Try and live a bit."

She waited until he met her eyes before she handed over the card.

"I'll try," he said.

* * *

A/N: Please let me know what you think (I promise I won't go into a author!panic this time.)

Also, though I'm sure you are already aware, there really is an official John Watson tie in blog. Check it out if you haven't aready.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Being Selfish

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock (this incarnation) belongs to the BBC. I (and the other 7 billion people in the world) own the originals because they belong to everyone (yay!)

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock

**Summary:** The explosion at the pool causes John to forget everything that came after being shot in Afghanistan. He becomes obsessed with trying to gain his memories back. The problem is that his mysterious flat-mate seems equally obsessed with making sure he doesn't remember.

**A/N:** Ok, so you know I said I was going to be good and not have an author!panic again? Well I did. Basically Louise Brealey (who plays Molly in the show) read my Molly fic and commented about it on Twitter. She wasn't nasty but that's the sort of thing that can send any fanfic author into a panic, right? People connected with the show aren't supposed to READ this stuff. Anyway, back on the horse, as they say.

WARNING: From here on in there will be –gasp- some HET. However do not panic – it will only be temporary and you'll soon be eating the slash up with a spoon. But please, don't hate the female on sight.

* * *

John groaned at his laptop screen.  
_  
404 error. This page cannot be displayed. _

Admittedly, this result was not unexpected. He had already typed the address into the bar four times with the same result. He had also tried variations on spelling in case Ella had got it wrong.

He didn't stop there. Next he tried Google and when Google failed to turn up anything of interest he tried Ask Jeeves, Bing, and Yahoo. All his research found was a few local articles mentioning his injury and return to the UK. He experimentally tried 'Sherlock Holmes' and was relieved to see a website pop up straight away. The Science of Deduction.

John clicked on it, and then groaned with annoyance to see another blank page. Under the heading of the website there was a brief message 'This website is down for maintenance.' Aside from a few contact details which John already knew, there was no information.

He was about to begin searching again – for what he wasn't sure – when a knock to the door interrupted him.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson poked her head into the room. "Is Sherlock in?"

John closed his laptop and shook his head. "He's out. What else is new?"

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson sounded disappointed. "Only there's a young lady here to see him. She said it was important."

"Oh really?" John asked eagerly. "Let her up – she can wait for him here."

This was perhaps a little unfair, John knew. If there was anywhere in London to find Sherlock Holmes, 221b Baker Street was not your best bet. But he burned with curiosity to find out more about the man, and this woman must know him somehow.

A few seconds later Sherlock's guest appeared in the doorway. She was about the same height as John, with chocolate brown hair tied in a practically ponytail. Dark eyes were hidden under a fringe that was in the process of growing out, and she looked like a good-humoured practical sort of person. She was, at most, thirty.

However, for the first few seconds John noticed none of these fine attributes, because his eyes automatically fixed at the dog-collar at the woman's neck.

"Er, welcome...vicar," he stammered. His eyes flickered down to the dog-collar again to check it was definitely still there.

The woman gave a hearty laugh, as though she was used to this surprise. "It's doubly difficult being a female vicar," she grinned, "most women complain that men don't look at their faces. My problem is that no one looks at either my face or my breasts. Just at the dog-collar."

John, who had been busy taking in the previously mentioned attributes, automatically looked down at the woman's breasts. It took him a millisecond to note that they were perfectly lovely and then to remember that he was ogling a perfect stranger's breasts and snap his head up.

"I was hoping you would choose the face option," she said with amusement.

"Yeah - sorry..." John flushed. "You caught me off guard. I'm John, Sherlock's...flatmate." He held out his hand with a smile.

"I'm technically the Reverend Eve Polk," she said as she shook it. "But everyone calls me Evie because a female vicar called Eve is a bit much, don't you think?"

He agreed that it was a bit, and offered her a cup of tea.

"I'm sorry, I was hoping to make this quick," she said. "I've had to leave Turpin – my German Shepherd – tied up outside. Do you know when Mr. Holmes will be back?"

John grimaced and confessed that he had no idea about his flatmate's erratic coming and goings, and that in fact he had been hoping she would know more about him. He found himself explaining about the amnesia, and only after he had done so did he realise he'd been suckered by the dog-collar into telling his life story to a very pretty, but nevertheless still a stranger.

Evie looked sympathetic after hearing the story and moved to sit down into the puffy chair Sherlock had insisted was his. "I'm sorry," she said. "But I really don't know him that well. I came to him for some advice regarding one of the local teenagers I've been trying to help. He said to meet him here to discuss his results. So it's really only a professional matter, you see."

"So, he's like a private detective?" asked John when she had explained a little of the problem she had presented to Sherlock – a wayward boy with potential for good that she was sure was being fitted up for theft.

"I suppose so," she shrugged. "The Bishop recommended him to me after Mr. Holmes helped him. Though-" she leaned in confidentially and waggled her eyebrows, "-I'm not sure that the Bishop's problem was as innocent as mine. Still, Mr. Holmes offered his services for free – he said the money the Bishop had paid him at the time was more than enough to cover it. I was jolly grateful."

John smiled, momentarily caught up in the notion that he was actually in the presence of a woman who was posh enough to use terms like 'jolly grateful' and yet pretty enough to make them sound cool and quirky.

He was also elated at this small piece of knowledge about Sherlock. It might not be much, but it clicked into his head, and though no concrete memories returned, he felt like the mist in his head had cleared enough to make out an odd shape or two.

So elated was he that he spoke from the heart and without exactly planning to. "I don't suppose you'd like to go for dinner tonight?"

Evie inclined her head. "Yes I would. Shall I meet you here at seven? Don't worry about booking anywhere. Hopefully I'll bump into Mr. Holmes while I'm here."

She stood, gave him a whole-hearted smile and a quick wave, and then left in order to walk her dog. She left John standing in the doorway marvelling at the chance of meeting so lovely a woman by chance, and wholly looking forward to his date.

* * *

John's mood was further improved that evening when, without warning, a single memory returned to him. He was standing at the mirror in the bathroom, his mind not really on the task in hand, and had just completed his shave. He shook the water off the blade and reached over to pick up his bottle of aftershave.

This action brought the memory suddenly to his mind – he had been preparing for another date here in this bathroom and the glass bottle of aftershave had slipped through his fingers and shattered on the tiles.

It wasn't much of a memory, admittedly, but it was the first one to return and it buoyed him even more than his upcoming date.

Unusually Sherlock was is residence – John wondered for a moment if some sort of flag needed to be raised for such a momentous event – and he was lounging on the sofa in his pyjamas as though this was all perfectly normal.

"Where are you taking her?" asked Sherlock.

John started. "How did you-"

"You're wearing aftershave," said Sherlock. "And _whistling_." He said the word 'whistling' as though it was personally offensive to him.

"Oh right," John laughed. "Evie told me. You're a...what? Private detective?"

Sherlock stared at the ceiling for a moment as if calculating some complex problem. It took him merely a couple of seconds to come to some private conclusion, and when he spoke in was in a cold, snide tone.

"What I am is no concern of yours."

The man stood and swept into the kitchen, heading out to his room.

"But wait," John called after him, "you have to tell her about the case still."

"She'll already know by now," was Sherlock's reply. The conversation ended with a slammed door.

* * *

Evie did already know. In fact when he answered the door to her she was bubbling with happiness.

"He sorted it all out!" she beamed. "I knew that Jay didn't steal that television and Mr. Holmes managed to get the case against him dropped."

"Oh," said John. He was still a little baffled at the sudden change in Sherlock's behaviour, and in truth he would have appreciated his date's first words to him not to be unconditional praise of Sherlock Holmes.

"It's such a weight off my mind," she said. "Jay is such a good boy – he's not had an easy life but he just needs someone to _trust_ him."

John was about to make some vague reply when his date slapped her hand over her mouth in horror.

"Oh no, there I go again," she groaned. "I told myself that I wasn't going to be a vicar tonight – and here I am babbling about reforming teenagers."

John smiled. "If it's any consolation, you don't look like a vicar tonight," he offered.

She looked very nice – if in a modest way. The dog-collar was gone, and her plain shirt had been replaced by a round necked red top.

"Really?" she beamed.

"Oh yeah, it's the first time I've ever checked out a vicar's legs."

She laughed and looked down at her legs (she wore a short black skirt, black tights, and flat red pumps) as though she had only just noticed them.

"So, what have you got planned for tonight?" asked John.

Twenty minutes later they were standing outside a local volunteer centre and John was trying not to laugh at the horror-struck expression on his date's face.

"It seemed so romantic at the time," she explained. "Us spending the evening helping out feeding the homeless. But now we're here...god I've turned into Dudley Do-Right again."

"No," said John, mock seriously. "He was a Mountie. And you're right."

"What?"

"You are rubbish at not being a vicar." She laughed and he found himself pleased that he'd made her smile. "And I don't mind helping out – I'm sure I've had worse first dates."

"Really?" she said. "Because I should warn you I'm terrible for this sort of thing. I'm the sort of person who spends their holidays climbing mountains for charity, and my idea of fun is trying to entrust street gangs." A flicker of nerves crossed her face. "That's why things didn't work out with my last...after I got stabbed he said he knew I wasn't going to change."

John wasn't the sort of man who, after meeting a woman he liked, started picking out their children's names. But he allowed himself a moment of imagining himself and Evie patrolling the inner city streets getting involved in trouble and generally doing good. It was an exciting image.

"Do I get to kiss you goodnight afterwards?" he asked.

Evie looked up as if considering it. "I'll let you kiss me now if you like."

John leaned in and gave Evie a sweet but long-lasting kiss. "Then let's go help some homeless people."

* * *

A/N: I hope you don't find Evie too annoying, I want her to be someone who (if John hadn't met Sherlock) John could have settled down with. But he won't. Like I said, the het is short-lived (but hopefully pleasant). Next chapter things start getting slashy. I just wanted John to try and move on but things aren't ever that simple for him.

Let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Being Selfish

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock (this incarnation) belongs to the BBC. I (and the other 7 billion people in the world) own the originals because they belong to everyone (yay!)

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock

**Summary:** The explosion at the pool causes John to forget everything that came after being shot in Afghanistan. He becomes obsessed with trying to gain his memories back. The problem is that his mysterious flat-mate seems equally obsessed with making sure he doesn't remember.

**A/N:** No author panic this time! Although I'll give you fair warning that I'm terribly, terribly sorry for what I'm going to do to you in this chapter.

* * *

Two months passed and without being entirely sure how it happened, John had a proper girlfriend. They went on dates, he met her parents, her friends started invited them places as a couple...and he thanked, well, God, that she was a young and funky vicar who was completely cool with the sex-before-marriage thing.

She definitely wasn't an average vicar. Although she was religious (she said prayers every night in a childlike way that John had never seen anyone do outside of American sitcoms) she seemed far more focused on doing good than the trappings of religion. She had outright disdain for the religious cliques churches created, and in her own words she was an expert at dodging the flower-arranging brigade and avoiding the '_if we pay enough money can we just skip the church-going before the ceremony?_' couples.

He found himself going to Sunday services regularly for the first time in, well, ever. He suddenly went from being practically friendless to knowing half the troubled youths, reformed convicts, and elderly widows in London. People asked him 'how's your young lady doing?'

And then Evie asked him to move in with her.

"Isn't it a bit sudden?" he stammered. It was Wednesday morning (her lie-in day, since Sunday was off the cards) and they were eating buttery toast in bed.

"John, you spend more nights here than you do at your flat," she yawned. "You don't have to, it just seemed to make sense considering I'm living alone in a three bedroom house and you're struggling to afford a flat-share."

"Won't your parishioners be scandalised? The Bishop?"

"Probably, but parishioners love a bit of scandal. They'll all come to gawp at their hussy of a vicar and that'll get bums on pews and up the collection plate money. The Bishop would let me preach naked if it got the money coming in."

John chucked and kissed her shoulder. "That's all I am to you? A way of increasing the collection plate takings..."

"Not just that. All the kids at the youth-group think you're brilliant. No less than three of my troubled teenagers want you to mentor them. Plus Turpin likes you."

"So you're inviting me to move in because the dog likes me?"

She pretended to just remember herself. "Me? Oh yes, I like you too."

"Just like...?"

She kissed him. "Make me some more toast and we'll see."

* * *

John agreed to move in, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something wrong in doing so. When he confessed this feeling to Evie she was annoyingly understanding about it.

"It makes sense, you have unfinished business there. Maybe you should take some time to think it over..."

John couldn't help but think that if she'd acted like a normal girlfriend and taken his worry to be lack of commitment to the relationship, it would have been easier. He could have told himself that he was being stupid, that it had almost been a longer length of time since the accident than he had originally forgotten, and that he had to move on.

In the end, he did it himself. He spent a weekend and the flat waiting for Sherlock to appear, planning what he was going to say, and trying to think of a way to explain something that he didn't need to explain, but felt he should.

The thousand and one explanations didn't do any good, because Sherlock didn't turn up at any point. Nor did he answer his phone.

"He's away working too much of late," said Mrs. Hudson mournfully. "Nowadays I only see him darting up or down the stairs at odd times of the day and night. Mind you, you haven't exactly been a homebody yourself..." she added.

John blushed and set about using one of his pre-planned explanations to tell her that he would be moving out at the end of the month. It was a painful conversation. Then he rushed to make her a cup of tea, because the women looked genuinely distressed.

"Oh things shouldn't end like this," she sniffed, "I know none of this is your fault John, you wanted to understand and he won't let you. And he won't let me tell you anything either!"

John resisted the temptation to yank at his hair in frustration. "Tell me what? What's so terrible that Sherlock's sworn everyone to secrecy? Please Mrs. Hudson..."

"Oh John," she reached over and patted his cheek. "That's the thing. It's not terrible – you were happy. Or at least as happy as you could be being Sherlock's friend. But I owe Sherlock – he got me out of a bit of difficulty once, and he had to break a few rules to do it. I'm still not sure whether he'll ever be allowed back into Florida..."

"Can't you give me a clue?" asked John desperately. "Just somewhere to look. My blog – that's gone. There has to be someone who I could go to?"

Mrs. Hudson bit her lip. "Well I suppose I could give you a small hint," she said. John was reminded of his Aunty letting him win at Trivial Pursuits as a boy.

He indicated that this would be very welcome.

"There's a detective at Scotland Yard. Lestrade his name is. He might be able to tell you something." Her eyes darted around as if someone was listening in. "But for god's sake don't tell anyone I told you."

John thanked her and left, feeling as though he'd done something illegal like a drug deal in her flat. Once upstairs he checked the tube route to Scotland Yard and headed off straight away, fighting down the irrational concern that something might happen to Lestrade before he got to him.

* * *

Lestrade was alive and well when John reached him, but he had a look on his face that said all too clearly that he wished John was anywhere but there. He had found the man's office with little difficulty (in fact, he'd thought it would be harder to infiltrate Scotland Yard) and was now standing in Lestrade's office. Lestrade was a harried looking man who seemed to be grey before his time, but despite his awkwardness with John, he didn't look unhappy to see him.

"Hi," he said. "Good to see you up and about. It's been a while hasn't it?"

"I don't know," said John flatly. "You tell me."

Lestrade winced. "Sorry. Yeah. I thought you might come here eventually, when you found out Sherlock took your blog down. Who was it who told you to see me? Mrs. Hudson?"

John ignored that last bit. "So he did that then? How?"

"Sherlock's got friends and family who could delete the entire internet, never mind a blog. But knowing Sherlock he probably just guessed your passwords. In my experience the only way to secure a password around Sherlock is by using two words picked at random from the dictionary along with three numbers picked from a hat. Changing them every full moon." He winced. "Even then, I'm not a hundred percent sure it's safe."

John groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands, ending with a semi-hysterical giggle. "What the hell did I get myself involved in with this guy?"

Lestrade winced again. "I'm sorry mate, I'd love to tell you. But Sherlock's threatened to never help me with a case again if I tell you anything. Frankly that's punishing himself as much as it is me, but I can't take the risk he's serious."

Lestrade must have caught John's expression of disbelief and hysteria because he held up one hand entreatingly.

"However," he said slowly. "He didn't say I couldn't pass you on to someone who would dearly love to piss him off by telling you everything they know." Lestrade paused. "Actually he did. But if you happen to bump into a detective by the name of Sally Donovan who happens to sit at the desk near the window then that's not my fault."

He winked, and John rose to shake his hand.

"Don't thank me yet," warned Lestrade.

* * *

Sally Donovan's expression of wicked delight upon seeing John was something to behold. She was eating a cheese sandwich during what seemed to be her lunch hour, but happily chucked it away in favour of taking him down the pub.

"You're going to need it," she warned.

Ten minutes later they were at an inferior Weatherspoons with chips and burgers on order and a pint in his hand and a diet coke in hers.

"I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did," she said. "I can barely stand him for half an hour at a time. You stuck out two months."

To his immense relief, John was free to listen as Sally Donovan (god bless her) sketched out everything she knew about the two months of his life he had shared with Sherlock Holmes.

Some parts she didn't know. She didn't know how he'd met the man, or how they'd come to share a flat, but she was able to sketch out some of the bizarre adventures he'd found himself involved in.

"And then," she finished, "you got blown up and lost your memory. No one knows all the details of that, except him. But I'll tell you this, whatever happened, I'll bet any money that he was to blame."

They were forced to stop while their food was delivered to the table, and Sally didn't speak again until she'd doused her chips in ketchup.

"So, any memories flooding back?" she asked.

John shrugged. "It doesn't seem to work like that. It's like the difference between reading a guide-book and visiting a country. I know about it but I haven't experienced anything."

He took a thoughtful bite of his burger. "Even so, none of what you said is so bad. None of its worth hiding from me..."

"Yeah well," Sally said sardonically, "I don't know everything. But I know him – and I reckon that he's done something so bad that he'll do anything to make you forget. My advice? Cut and run – because he's got contacts way up the ladder – and if he wants you out of the way then amnesia is nothin' to what he could do."

John pushed away his plate. He suddenly didn't feel hungry anymore. Sally seemed keen on speculating about Sherlock's supposed crimes. Rape. Abuse. Maybe he'd kidnapped John and had him under Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe John had witnessed Sherlock murdering someone. It wasn't until she noticed him desperately downing his third pint that she realised that she wasn't being helpful.

"I'm just trying to show you," she said kindly. "It's best that whatever it is, you never find out."

* * *

A/N: I know, I'm sorry. If it's any consolation, this will be the last Sherlock!Lite chapter. Also the last one without hints of slash. And finally, FINALLY, you'll start getting some answers. Reviews are love!


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Being Selfish

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock (this incarnation) belongs to the BBC. I (and the other 7 billion people in the world) own the originals because they belong to everyone (yay!)

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock

**Summary:** The explosion at the pool causes John to forget everything that came after being shot in Afghanistan. He becomes obsessed with trying to gain his memories back. The problem is that his mysterious flat-mate seems equally obsessed with making sure he doesn't remember.

**A/N: **The delay this time had nothing to do with author!panic, but more to do with author!real-life-obligations (hey I can't spend my entire summer break doing exactly what I want when I want, though lord knows, I've tried). Normal service is now resumed. Thanks for the amazing reviews I've been getting!

* * *

_John,_

_Won't be home tonight. Driving Sasha to stay with friends in Devon. _

_Evie x _

The post-it had been left on the first step of the stairs, where Evie always left notes believing it to be the only place (bar the toilet seat) where you couldn't miss a message. There was nothing unusual about this, John had heard about the trials of Evie's flock member Sasha who was trying to escape an abusive husband. Evie rushing off on a rescue mission was nothing new, and his only concern was wondering what to do for dinner. Was ordering a Chinese for one a bit sad?

Still, there was a football match on, and there would be something good on Dave after. He was just getting used to the idea of a night in alone, when Harry called. John wondered why he hadn't expected it – Harry had a sixth sense when it came to spoiling nights-in.

"Heey," she said. "Wanna come out for dinner? My treat."

John sighed, "Actually, Harry, I-"

"C'mon," Harry wheedled. "I haven't seen you in ages. I was starting to think you'd forgotten me."

There was a pause, and then she gasped.

"Shit. Sorry. That was insensitive. I didn't mean – you know – _forgotten_. I just meant we should catch up."

John sighed, seeing his plans for Football and Mock the Week fly out of the window in the place of a tension filled dinner with his sister. "Fine. Where?"

* * *

John was surprised at the slight nervousness he had about this meeting. From what Harry had said John had met up with her a few times since his return to England, but with those four months still blank in his mind, John had no memory of these. The last time he remembered meeting her was not long before he had left for Afghanistan. They'd had coffee, talked stiltedly, and promised to meet up before he shipped out. Neither had bothered to arrange this meeting when the time came. Aside from some scant letters during his service with the news of her marriage, that was all the contact they'd had.

He entered the Indian restaurant and was taken to the booth where Harry was waiting. For a moment he was startled at the sight of the woman in front of him. It was stupid to imagine she wouldn't have changed in the two years since he'd last seen her, but it was as if in those years all of the old Harry had leaked away. The feisty, irritating, mouthy Harry had been replaced by a bony woman with shadowed eyes and prominent collar-bones. Her previously sleek brown hair was dry and rough-looking. Her skin was its natural colour again, deeply jarring for a woman who had never been a shade paler than orange since she could afford fake-tan.

"Blimey, you're looking chubby," was her greeting. "Has your boyfriend been feeding you up?"

The waitress chose this moment to appear and she coolly ordered while he spluttered. He recovered in time to order a Rogan Josh and a mountain of Naan bread, then took a gulp of the wine Harry had already ordered.

She noted his inquisitive glance at the bottle and scowled. "My first," she said. "Don't get up on your high horse. You're always like this when you want to distract me from talking about him."

"About who? What boyfriend?" John asked. "Don't fuck with the amnesiac here."

"Your flatmate. The one whose name always makes me think of poison." She frowned. "Hemlock...Sherlock. That's it."

"Him?"

"Yeah. Don't worry though. I don't think you've had him yet. You were still labouring under the delusion you were heterosexual when I last saw you. At least, that's what you kept saying in between 'Sherlock this...' and 'my flatmate that...' and 'did I tell you what Sherlock left in the fridge?' You do know that sexuality is a sliding scale right? No one is ever 100% one or the other."

John relaxed a bit at this. Harry had enjoyed teasing him about his sexuality since she'd come out aged twenty. She'd claimed she wouldn't rest until he'd come over to the 'dark side' (or at least tried it out extensively).

He briefly outlined the current state of affairs with Sherlock, and talked about Evie and her charities for a bit. The conversation moved on.

"I notice Clara's got you on a tight leash," he said teasingly after their dinner was delivered. "Normally you flirt with the waitress just to make sure no-one assumes you're straight."

Her mouth pinched, and John remembered that he wasn't talking to the bubbly, annoying Harry of two years ago,

"We split up."

"Oh..."

"Don't look like that," she snapped. "I already went through this deeply painful conversation with you once and you looked as disapproving then as you do now. Can we not have the heart-to-hearts all over again?"

"Since when do we have heart-to-hearts?"

Harry scowled. "I can't believe you're making me say this again," she muttered. Then she leaned forward and grabbed his hand. "You got shot John. You nearly died. I'm your sister. I'm all you've got since mum died and Dad...well...Dad's Dad. I know we never got on much, but I do care and I want us to be better friends than we were. I said it when you got back, and I'm saying it now."

She ordered another bottle of wine (her fail-safe method of easing tension) and they lapsed into silence. He gave her a half-smile and she gave him one back.

"Now," she said brightly, "you want me to tell you everything I know about Sherlock, right?"

John frowned. "Why do you think that?"

Harry laughed. "Oh John, it's been written all over your face since I mentioned his name!"

* * *

To say Sherlock was on his mind that evening was an understatement but when he next ran into Sherlock – three days later – it was completely by accident.

He had accompanied Evie to their local police station where a wayward youth was being held and Evie was attempting to assure the police that she would be personally responsible for turning his life around.

For John's part this essentially meant waiting in the lobby for an hour and a half until he had read and re-read every anti-theft sign in the room ten times. He was just reassuring himself that he _had_ locked the front door (nothing like being warned by a sign ten times to put doubt in your mind) when Sherlock Holmes himself walked out into the area.

He looked no different than John remembered, and he hadn't noticed John because he was engrossed in his mobile phone. He had come from some inner recess of the police station and in-between texting he was absently rewinding his scarf around his neck.

"Hi," said John without thinking. He jumped up from his plastic orange chair and stepped towards him.

Sherlock looked up and any idea of this being some sort of set-up faded from John's mind. Sherlock looked genuinely surprised and not at all comfortable.

"Hello," he said cautiously.

"Don't worry. I've not been arrested," joked John, "I'm waiting for Evie."

Sherlock's expression didn't alter. "Has she been arrested?"

John laughed, far louder than he planned. He realised, with and inward cringe, that he was acting exactly as he had aged sixteen and trying to chat up Wanda Falkner (a girl several leagues above him socially and physically) in 1988.

"Er, no," he said awkwardly. "Uh, how's things?"

Sherlock continued to stare unblinkingly at him. "Fine."

"Oh. That's good. Things are good with me too. Me and Evie that is. Have you got a new flatmate yet?" he babbled.

"No."

"Right, right." John nodded. "Listen I don't suppose you fancy getting a drink sometime...catching up?"

"No." Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and adjusted his scarf. Then with a tight smile he turned and left the station.

John sunk into his plastic seat dejectedly. At least Wanda Falkner had had the grace to look embarrassed, and add a long, fake, 'Oh! Sooorry' before saying no.

And, he thought with a groan, was he seriously comparing asking an old friend out for a drink with asking his crush of two months to a Christmas dance? This was all Harry's fault. He would never have even thought like this if she hadn't put doubts into his mind.

Evie bounded out into the lobby and gave him a pleased smile. "Success!" she said. "Let's go get a drink to celebrate."

John nodded, but his mind was still on Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

His mind stayed on Sherlock Holmes for the rest of the day. The thought was like an odd twinge of pain that he kept testing to find out how much it hurt. He was acting like a boy with a crush – not a man with a girlfriend and responsibilities.

That night as he lay in bed he went over and over it in his mind while Evie slept next to him with a soft snore.

Why were those two months worth of memories so tied up with Sherlock Holmes? Why did he care so much about a man he'd barely had three awkward conversations with? How serious had Harry been? Why were those few months so important to him that he couldn't move on even though - God help him - he'd tried so hard?

And most importantly, what was Sherlock Holmes so desperate to hide?

When the idea came, it made him feel sick. His eyes opened impossibly wide in the darkness.

Had he been in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes?

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. If he - just back from Afghanistan, lonely, maybe vulnerable – had fallen into some sort of sexual relationship with Sherlock Holmes, then it made sense Sherlock might have wanted to keep it private.

How do you explain to someone who has never previously had a homosexual thought in their life that they've been shagging you for two months? Answer: you don't, you push them away and hope they don't remember. Hell, maybe Sherlock had thought it was a mistake and was thankful for this clean slate.

It would explain the strange sense of...excitement he felt around the man. It would explain Harry's insinuations. It would explain why people were so confused at Sherlock's behaviour. It would explain why John had been so sure from the start that Sherlock held the key to his memories.

It would explain why Sherlock was so determined to keep the secret.

And it would explain the nagging feeling in John's mind that if Sherlock called, there and then, he wouldn't hesitate to go to him.

* * *

**A/N:** Told you things would start getting slashy! However don't assume John's right in his explanations...

I had the most enormous fun writing the Harry and John talk. I personally imagine her to look like Gina Bellman (Mrs. Jackman from Jekyll) even though she bears no resemblance to John at all. Though I could make a case for Fenella Woolgar too (Agatha Christie in Doctor Who).

Seriously though I had no idea how long this fic would turn out. Still the end it in sight – just another two chapters to go. Keep with it folks and let me know what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Being Selfish

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock (this incarnation) belongs to the BBC. I (and the other 7 billion people in the world) own the originals because they belong to everyone (yay!)

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock

**Summary:** The explosion at the pool causes John to forget everything that came after being shot in Afghanistan. He becomes obsessed with trying to gain his memories back. The problem is that his mysterious flat-mate seems equally obsessed with making sure he doesn't remember.

**A/N: **Ok, so my enthusiasm for writing kind of...waned...amidst back-to-uni panic and general real life. But I need this done before uni, because otherwise it won't get done.

As a side note, can you please go HERE: http : / / gobeyond . landrover . com / entry / 82644 (remove spaces) and give this vid 5 stars? It could win me a trip to Africa and will only take you 5 seconds. Shameless self-pimping over.

And thanks for all the amazing and thoughtful reviews I've been getting!

* * *

Understandably John's imagination had run wild during the night, and when he eventually staggered out of bed at sunrise, he had managed little more than a light doze in-between nightmare scenarios. After a sleepless night of homosexual panic, the last thing someone needs is to face a chipper, oblivious girlfriend and John felt justified in being somewhat crabby with her.

He sat in a world of fuzzy exhaustion as she moved around the kitchen in a spritely fashion eating toast and chattering about her plan for the day.

"-So I said we could pop over there tonight and help out for a bit..."

John groaned and dropped his head onto the kitchen table with a thunk.

"What? What's the matter? John?"

"Nothing," he snapped. "I just... don't feel like going out tonight."

Evie shrugged. "It's only for an hour or two. I didn't think you'd mind."

"Well I do mind."

Evie put her mug down with an annoyed clink. "I've promised Anna we'd be there."

"Exactly, you promised for me. Without asking."

"Well what else were you planning to do?" she huffed. "Sit on the sofa and eat pizza?"

"Maybe! Or maybe I wanted to go out somewhere."

"You just said you didn't feel like going out," Evie sniped.

"Well now I do!" he shouted. "I'm going out tonight, and I'm going to get drunk."

"All to get out of a measly hour of charity work?" Evie sneered. "You are so selfish!"

Privately John knew that he was at the line in an argument where you know that you are about to say something stupid and cruel, and you know that you should back down there and then and apologise.

No one, in the history of time, has ever done that. John certainly wasn't about to.

"*Me* selfish?" he roared. "I'm not the one who is organising someone else's life without their permission! It's not just an hour, it's every hour of the day!"

"Oh how selfish of me, trying to make the world a better place!"

"It is selfish! You get off on it, don't you? You get off on being a martyr! Saint Evie who would give a needy person the clothes off her back! Saint Evie who climbs mountains and throws herself into gang wars in her spare time." John was still yelling, and his throat was burning, but he was already on an angry roll.

"It's an obsession, and if it didn't give you a kick, you wouldn't care about any of it. You collect good deeds like trophies and you'll drop anyone or anything that gets in your way!"

Evie was staring at him with a burning face and glistening eyes. John wasn't sure where his rant had come from, but he was more angry than he could ever remember being, and he had no idea where half of his words were coming from. He paused and took a big breath to try and calm himself.

"So I'm a bad person because I like doing good?" she choked.

"No," he said bitterly. "You're just selfish. You're addicted to the buzz it gives you." He took another calming breath. "God knows, there are worse things to be addicted to though."

However Evie was not as relieved to have her character flaws shown to her so bluntly. In a shriek of anger she picked up her mug and hurled it at the wall by his shoulder. He was splattered with blue pottery and luke-warm tea.

"GET OUT!" she shrieked. "OUT! GET OUT!"

* * *

Despite having been kicked out of home that morning, John wasn't especially worried. He had work, and he was sure that if he kept out of Evie's way tonight they would be able to talk rationally and calmly tomorrow.

This didn't mean he was in any way guilt-free though. In between patients memories of that morning niggled at him. He had taken out his confusion and worry about Sherlock on Evie. That had led him to attack her in self-defence. Deep down he'd known what her mania was, and any other time he could have been accepting – maybe even excited by it.

But he couldn't. Not with Sherlock between them.

Over lunch the answer came to him. He couldn't expect to fix his relationship with Evie without addressing the real thing that was at fault here. He needed to either get his memories back or decide once and for all to move on.

And since the first was impossible, he had to try the second.

John planned it carefully in his mind. He couldn't exactly hunt down Sherlock and demand to know details of their sexual relationship (if there wasn't one then one or both of them might die from embarrassment). So he needed to find out how interested he was in...that side of things. He would go to a club tonight and, um, experiment.

If (as he fully expected) he felt no interest then he would put all this behind him and fight to fix things with Evie.

He couldn't bring himself to plan what he'd do if he did feel interest. He had a vague idea of joining the French Foreign Legion, which was apparently the thing to do if you wanted to forget. He already had a good start, after all.

One embarrassing google later found him the address of a club that would, er, suit his needs. It didn't look too flamboyant and he could swing there after work without being overdressed.

He knew that the thought should have eased his mind. It was a simple solution after all. But as six pm drew nearer John's eyes drifted to the clock and willed it to slow down. He couldn't help feeling that he was opening a can of worms he really didn't want to know about.

* * *

"Sliding scale," John muttered to himself at ten o' clock that night. He had just left the Blue Garden bar and was heading towards the nearest tube station. He was (mostly) sober and massively regretting his plan. "Hah! Sliding scale. I'm definitely, one hundred percent straight."

John had tried, he really had. He'd had a few drinks, talked to a few guys, and even danced a little (it had been awkward, but then John was an awkward dancer no matter what the sex he was dancing with). The men he'd talked to were perfectly nice, quite attractive, and two had left him their numbers.

But the thought of doing anything more than talking and drinking with them left John stone cold.

So that was it. Settled. He was straight. This whole Sherlock thing was just an hysterical panic cooked up by stress and curiosity. He was going to put the Sherlock business behind him and go back to Evie.

Over.

Case closed.

Right?

An elegant car glided to a halt next to him, but John was not in the habit of expecting cars to randomly follow him. It wasn't until the car started again and drove alongside him at a walking pace that John turned and looked. The car stopped where he stopped.

A tinted rear window rolled down with an electric buzz and a pale man with a smile like a wolf beckoned to him.

John realised with a jolt that he was in an area surrounded by gay bars of every type. Still, he sniffed, it wasn't *that* sort of area.

"Sorry mate," he said gruffly. "This isn't the sort of place to get what you're after. And I'm definitely not what you're after."

The man smirked. "On the contrary John, you are exactly who I'm after. Please do get in."

John stared at the car cautiously. "I don't think so, mate."

He started walking away. The car rolled after him. The man called out to his back.

"I think so Mr. Watson. I had my assistant steal your wallet before you left that particular establishment. Unless you are planning a very long walk home, I suggest you get in."

John stopped. So did the car. The man watched in amusement as John rifled through his pockets for his wallet. He groaned as he remembered a dolled-up, seemingly drunk woman bumping into him as he left. She'd had glitter in her hair and had been clutching a cocktail. Harmless – or so he'd thought.

"Is this the little chap you're after?" said the man. He held up John's wallet out of the window tauntingly, and then pulled it back before John could snatch it. With a wave of his hand the driver got out and opened the door. John reluctantly got in.

Once the door was locked, the blond man handed John's wallet back.

"A cheap trick," he said delicately. "But effective. And my assistant did rather deserve a night out. Speaking of-" he addressed the driver, "Arrange to pick her up at two am. Have a sick bag ready. If she attempts to telephone her ex-boyfriend, confiscate her mobile." He turned back to John and spoke confidentially.

"A brilliant woman in many ways, but her love life *is* a drama. If only she'd go for the steady, sensible ones – instead she likes the ones who want to take over the world. While that's terribly useful for my line of work, it's not at all good for her emotional state."

"I'm sorry," John said incredulously. "Have I been kidnapped in order to listen to you getting petty about your assistant's weird taste in blokes? Who the hell are you?"

The man held out a manicured hand. "Mycroft Holmes," he said. "But then, we've met before."

John slumped back in his seat. "Holmes as in...?"

"His brother. And I think we need to have a little chat."

* * *

Once they were on the move again, Mycroft started speaking.

"I understand that you have a sister," he said casually. "So I'm sure you understand what it is to watch your sibling acting in a completely fat-headed and childish way."

John opened his mouth to agree whole-heartedly, but Mycroft held up his hand to silence him.

"What happened to you was unfortunate, and believe me I tried to interfere on your behalf. But Sherlock has always been terribly good at getting his own way and his threats to raise some previous...unpleasantness...with Mummy prevented me acting."

"You can get my memories back?"

"Of course not. But if you understand why Sherlock is acting as he is, you *can*. You have a history of psychosomatic issues, all you need to do is find the trigger and they'll come flooding back."

John rubbed at his eyes in desire to keep a clear head. He felt far less sober in this warm car.

"Why tell me now then?"

Mycroft sighed. "Your little experiment tonight, coupled with your argument with Eve Polk this morning. Sherlock is good at manipulating people's actions for the short term, but he forgets that he can't control emotion."

"Look," snapped John. "Just tell me what he's so scared of me remembering! Because right now gay lovers is the best I can come up with!"

Mycroft chuckled. "How melodramatic. It's much pettier than that. And when you remember him properly, you'll understand how terribly like him it is."

"What is?"

"He likes you."

"And?"

"That's it."

John blinked. "I'm sorry. I'm not following."

"Imagine Sherlock. He's a brilliant deducing machine. Then you come along and he begins to like you. Suddenly he finds his judgement impaired and his logic clashes with his desire to save you."

"Still not following."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You are normally quicker on the uptake. I recommend you keep clear of vodka in the future. It's simple. Sherlock meets you. He likes you. At the moment his deducing machine needs to work best, his desire to save you breaks it down. Then you wake up with your memories missing and Sherlock jumps at the chance to, uh, undo things thinking that it will 'fix him'.

"He removes any possible trigger that might bring back memories. He arranges for you to meet a woman who – if you hadn't already met him – would be perfect for you. In many ways the Reverend Eve Polk is exactly like him, only with a different obsession. But you didn't meet her first, you met him, and whatever Sherlock thinks, he can't undo that."

John sat back completely nonplussed. Mycroft Holmes was looking out of the window as though the whole matter was settled.

"Are you seriously suggesting that Sherlock has a crush on me and is basically doing a very complicated version of sticking his fingers in his ears and going 'la la la la'?"

"I must say, that's rather indelicately put. But yes."

"And I actually liked this guy?"

"Most of the time."

"So...am I gay or not then?" John only realised how stupid that one sounded once he'd said it out loud. But the man did seem to know everything else.

Mycroft gave John a look that suggested he thought that in terms of idiocy about important things, he and Sherlock were soulmates. "You may never have had a romantic interest in men. But he's never had a romantic interest in *anyone*. Yet here we are."

"So...what am I supposed to do?"

The car pulled up and the driver opened John's door. They were outside 221b Baker Street. Mycroft handed him a key that John was pretty sure he'd given to Mrs. Hudson upon leaving.

"Go and face him John, and tell him to stop being so bloody selfish."

* * *

**A/N:** Gah, this was HARD. I hope it's worth it. One more chappie to go, so let me know what you think! The Evie thing will be resolved, and I hope that for those who through she was too perfect, you see that she shares some of Sherlock's bad qualities.

And if you haven't voted on that link, PLEASE do!


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** Being Selfish

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock (this incarnation) belongs to the BBC. I (and the other 7 billion people in the world) own the originals because they belong to everyone (yay!)

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock

**Summary:** The explosion at the pool causes John to forget everything that came after being shot in Afghanistan. He becomes obsessed with trying to gain his memories back. The problem is that his mysterious flat-mate seems equally obsessed with making sure he doesn't remember.

**A/N: **Well this is the last one folks. I never meant for this to get as big as it did, but I'm not sorry it has and I hope you have enjoyed it.

Once more, if you haven't already, can you please go HERE: http : / /go beyond . land rover . com / entry / 82644 (remove spaces) and give this vid 5 stars? It could win me a trip to Africa and will only take you 5 seconds. The competition is nearly over, and I'm desperate to get to the next round!

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221b Baker St felt no more familiar to John this time than it had during the brief period he had lived there after his hospitalisation. Other than the unusual difference of Sherlock's coat being in residence there was no real change. He shut the door behind him as quietly as possible (it was nearing eleven after all), hesitated by the coat rack, and then hung his jacket up. This achieved he padded upstairs as quietly as possible.

He had barely raised his fist to the door when a sharp voice from inside called out; "For god's sake, don't hover outside John! It's not like you at all."

John had had a vague idea that Sherlock might pretend not to be in (admittedly difficult with both his coat hanging up and the sound of music and footsteps coming from within.) Wrong-footed, he opened the door.

He was about to say something snide along the lines of 'well I don't know how I'm meant to act, thanks to you', but the sight that greeted him momentarily stunned him.

"Jesus! What the hell has happened in here? It looks like a bomb's hit it."

Sherlock was sprawled dramatically on the couch like a Victorian maiden overwhelmed by one-too-many waltzes. He opened his eyes and glanced around for the merest second, clearly deciding that the chaos wasn't worth his notice and that John wasn't worth deigning with reply.

"So," he said bitterly. "My brother's been getting his claws into you, has he? Whatever he said it was a lie."

"But it's not a lie though, is it?"

"No. But if you pretended it was then both our lives would be easier and Mycroft would be a whole lot less smug."

"How did you know I'd even seen him?"

"Oh please. I just saw you getting out of a non-descript black car from the window. Who else could it be? Unless you've gotten chummy with Sir Alan Sugar recently."

That effectively stalled the conversation. John looked around the room in silence for a moment, taking in what looked like several chemistry labs and the contents of a palaeontologist's attic. It was hard to imagine the place tidy, despite the fact he'd lived in it for a few spotless weeks.

"That *is* my chair, isn't it?" he said suddenly. John jerked his head to the rounded chair he had first been drawn to.

Sherlock snapped his eyes away from contemplating the ceiling, but gave no more than a half-hearted shrug. "Technically they are all my chairs, since you don't live here anymore."

John moved towards the chair and sunk slowly into it. "So..."

"So...what?" said Sherlock snidely. "Has the mere presence of your buttocks in a familiar seat brought the memories rushing back?"

"No, but it's a lot comfier than your chair. And as of now, I'm moving back in."

Sherlock sat up and narrowed his eyes at John. "Oh are you? What will Evie have to say about that?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Well apparently you manipulated her into liking me, and me into liking her, so I guess you can manipulate her into being fine with it."

With a huff Sherlock dropped back down into a laying position.

"Don't be ridiculous. I manipulated you into meeting her knowing full well you'd both leap into each other's arms. The rest was your own dreary natures at work."

"Look, I just want to be able to make an informed choice about Evie. And you're stopping me doing that for a really stupid reason."

"Which is?"

"According to your brother you have a crush on me and are worried I might damage your thinking super-powers."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Did he actually phrase it that! Has that assistant been letting him read romance novels again?"

"I may have paraphrased," said John sarcastically. "Though apparently her love-life is still a disaster. Maybe you should have set me up with her."

"You wouldn't stand a chance unless you have a yacht you've been keeping quiet about. Though she might settle for a small castle and a Bentley."

"Oh, didn't I mention those? It must have slipped my mind in the amnesia."

They shared a brief chuckle, and for a moment things seemed comfortable between them. As quickly as things had warmed, Sherlock froze again.

"So what exactly is Mycroft expecting?" he huffed. "That you'll move back in, we share a dreamy kiss, and all your memories rush back? Possibly while '_I Don't Want to Miss a Thing_' plays powerfully in the background."

"I don't think..." John trailed off and wrinkled his nose. "What the hell sort of films do you watch?" He shook his head to clear the bizarre idea. "The point is that if I move back in, it's my choice. And if I choose to follow you around and make your life a misery until you tell me what I want to know, that's my business too."

There was no reaction from Sherlock. Feeling bold, John continued. "And I'm pretty sure I'm not gay, by the way."

Sherlock eyes, which had been languid, snapped open. "Well...good for you."

"But I'm told that you've never been interested in anyone. So we might both be wrong."

"Sounds like the sort of fat-headed thing Mycroft would say."

"He did, but I phrased it better."

Sherlock breathed deeply at sat up with sudden life and energy. "Is there a point to this touching heart-to-heart?"

"I was just thinking that if you wanted to try kiss me, it'll probably be a helluva lot less awkward without my memories than with them."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

John shrugged. "I have no idea. It's a bit of an experiment."

To John's surprise Sherlock laughed. Then he went silent and thoughtful within the same breath. "Yes," he murmured. "An experiment."

He stood and prowled over to where John was sitting. As John pulled himself to his feet his only thought was that he'd forgotten how tall Sherlock was.

There was a brief awkward moment where they gauged how this was going to work, where their faces needed to be and John reminded Sherlock to close his eyes. Then they pressed their lips together.

It was a dry kiss, with minimal movement and neither seemed sure how long it was supposed to last for. After an acceptable length of time they stepped away from each other.

"Well," coughed Sherlock. "That was..."

"Rubbish?" finished John.

For a second time, Sherlock laughed. This time in a huff of amusement. "Yes. Shocking."

"Bit like kissing a stern headmistress," said John.

"I had a headmaster, but yes. The comparison stands. Did any of your memories return?"

"No." If anything his head felt blanker. "Though I can always put '_I Don't Want to Miss a Thing_' on to play if you think that might help."

"A mistake then," said Sherlock.

John nodded. Sherlock was right. This was awkward.

"Mind you, I wouldn't mind having another go. Just to make sure. There was room for improvement." Where that had come from, John had no idea, but he blurted it out in one long rush.

They shared a speculative look.

"I concur," said Sherlock.

They leaned in for another kiss. This time there was definite movement on both sides.

"That was... slightly more satisfactory," said Sherlock.

"Mmm."

Neither of them had stepped away from each other this time. John inclined his head in a way that somehow suggested 'more'.

"Shall we...?"

"Absolutely," said Sherlock breathlessly.

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_Epilogue_

_One Month Later_

John and Sherlock still hadn't had sex yet. In John's mind, this was probably the last thing anyone would want to know about their relationship, but his conversations with Harry and Mycroft (blatant in Harry's case, veiled in Mycroft's, cringe-worthy in both) proved otherwise.

That said, what they had done, they'd done really, REALLY well.

John was actually beginning to get annoyed that this prying into his almost-sex-life was overshadowing his bigger news. His memories were back, and in tip-top shape bar from a few missing hours after the explosion which he doubted would ever come back. He remembered the flat, he remembered Sherlock, he remembered Mrs. Hudson and he had gone through the initial freak-outs that had come with it all. Sherlock was still laughing about John's conversation with Sally.

John was quick to stress to Harry that this returning memory had more to do with hours of conversation with Sherlock than the exciting sexcapades she had assumed. Sherlock had still annoyingly refused to tell John too many details, but he'd know how to lead John's mind down the right paths that would return those memories.

"It's only a variation of cognitive interviewing," he'd yawned late one night. "I've never enjoyed that sort of detective work, but the method has it's uses."

John would have been tempted to consider the whole matter as resolved happily and without any loose ends, but whenever he tried to think like that he guiltily remembered Evie.

The sensation was similar to the feeling he felt whenever he went passed Edmonton Street, where he has once wrecked his rented flat during a drunken student binge. To this day his insides twisted with guilt and shame whenever he rode past it. It was a similar feeling whenever he thought about Evie, and it didn't make him feel any better that Evie had, technically at least, dumped him.

He had gone to Evie the day after he had moved back in with Sherlock. He hadn't even managed to explain that he was moving out before she announced her own plans.

The Bishop had phoned her yesterday (John tried to ignore the knowledge that at that moment he'd been in a gay bar) and asked her to head up a new year-long project out in Africa. He'd only called to test the water, but Evie had jumped in feet first and agreed there and then.

In the few hours before John had turned up she had already had her injections and begun packing her stuff up.

"You could come with me," she offered. Her tone suggested full well that she knew it wasn't going to happen. He said 'no', and she nodded. "I wasn't...I wouldn't have expected you to come. So don't feel guilty."

John was feeling guilty. He was completely failing to tell her the truth – that she was being dumped for Sherlock Holmes. He had a brief scuffle with his conscience and came out victorious – no woman (no matter how saintly) wanted to be left for another guy.

"Just so you know,,,if I'd met you four months earlier, I would have been going with you," was all John managed. "But things are...I'm different now. My memories are coming back."

She smiled weakly and took a deep breath. "You were right when you called me selfish,2 she confessed. "Because I really...I love you. But even if you loved me, I still wouldn't have stayed."

That was all that either of them had to say. They hugged, John collected his stuff, and when John left her house and took a deep breath of fresh air.

His relief lasted approximately two seconds because Sherlock Holmes was leaning against the gate outside, texting. The same Sherlock Holmes he'd left at 221b Baker Street an hour before.

"I'm going to Holland" said Sherlock without looking up.

John paused. "What?"

"Holland. Diamond theft. I didn't get you a ticket. I've got a dreadful feeling it will be dull. Holland always is. Besides, you have work and all those other things you like to do."

John narrowed his eyes. "Like you've ever cared about that stuff before," he snapped. "You just want to bugger off and do dangerous stuff without me. I don't suppose you care how things went with Evie either."

John could almost see Sherlock's mind whirring as tried to remember why he should care about Evie or any conversations connected with her. "Oh that. How did it go?"

"She's going to Africa."

Sherlock slid his phone shut. "That seems an extreme reaction."

"She was already going. She was guilty about leaving me, but not much."

He stepped out of the gate and the two of them begun a slow walk toward the main street where they could catch a cab home.

"So you're saying that she was too selfish for you then," said Sherlock. "Or possibly not selfish enough to put herself first."

John stared t Sherlock incredulously. "You purposely hide my memories from because *you* have a crush that might interfere with your work, then you bugger off to Holland without me a day after my memories start coming back, and now you're casting judgements about selfishness?" John heaved the bag of stuff he was carrying at Sherlock. "For that, you can carry this."

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**THE END

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**A/N: **That's it peeps. Please let me know what you think. Thank you to every single person who has loyally followed this. You made writing this twice as fun and pushed me on when I was fed up and panicking!

As I said before, if you get a chance to vote for me, I'd appreciate it!


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